It's okay to let go.

Hey kid.

It's incredible to me that it's been four years since I said goodbye to you.

Some days it feels like four heartbeats. Four teeny tiny seconds, because it's so raw and fresh and there's still a sucking chest wound of loss.

Other days it feels like it's been four lifetimes. Like it's been hundreds and hundreds of years since I got to talk to you, hear your voice, and see you smile.

Sometimes, words come so easily to me. I can remember nights when we'd sit up and talk for hours, heartfelt discussions that carried on until the wee hours of the morning.

You were always so easy to talk to, you never made me feel stupid for not using the right words or not being able to describe things just right, and you'd let me ramble on endlessly about some hot guy I'd seen, or some thing that was bothering me or some crazy project I'd want to work on. You'd listen and make me feel like what I had to say was important, like it mattered, and like you cared.

I think that's one of the things I miss most about you. Being able to talk to you about absolutely anything and everything. That's why I'm starting these letters.

The logical part of my brain tells me you can't really read them, but I've always been a believer, and a dreamer and I chose to believe that heaven has really awesome wifi and you've got an amazing computer with super high quality graphics and somehow, you can, and will read this.

Words haven't come so easily to me since you've been gone. There's times I've gone completely mute for hours at a time, and times I would have gone completely mute for days or longer, if I could have.

Those five words though, while they were the most compassionate words I could have and have ever said to you, besides perhaps "I Love You" were by far the most difficult words I've ever had to say.

"It's okay to let go."

There came a point, where as much as I didn't want to know it, and didn't want to believe it, and didn't want it to be truth, I knew. I knew it was time for you to move on to bigger and better things, and to go home, and I could see you fight it with every breath.

I feel like you kept on fighting, long after your body tried to give out, to stay. Even after I said it was okay, I watched you continue to fight for a while. Your heartbeat slowed, your breathing became almost non-existent, and suddenly you'd perk up a little bit and all of your stats would pick up and you'd fight a little bit more, and a little bit longer.

I admire you for that.

It was okay though, for you to let go, and I hope you knew that. That letting go wasn't giving up, or being weak or losing. You fought longer and harder in a body that had given out than anyone expected you to. You were incredibly brave, and strong, and I'm proud of you for holding on as long as you did.

I'm proud as hell of you for an awful lot of things, but we'll get into those things in future letters.

For now, I just wanted you to know you're remembered, you're loved still, every single day, and you're missed terribly.

And since today is the anniversary of you making your way to heaven, it seemed like a good day to start these letters, and kind of mark the day.

This song has helped me an awful lot as I've waded through the process of grief of losing you.

I love you.

Bear